The Broken Violin
by Captain-Cheesecake
Summary: Dr John Watson comes home to find a broken violin. Which, if you share a flat with Sherlock Holmes, is never a good sign.


**My first Sherlock story. Gosh, I love that show.**

**Simply just a day in the life of John and Sherlock.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. That's that.**

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Dr John Watson came home to his shared flat of 221 B Baker Street to find the pieces of a broken violin scattered across the floor. Again. Not the good one though. Never the good one. No, he always breaks the backup violin, the one he got just in case he wanted to smash something. Which is often. It wasn't nearly as in tune as the other one, nor as old. He stepped around the mess of the flat and looked in the kitchen to find Sherlock sitting in a chair, his head against the table.

"Tough night?" John guessed as he hung up his jacket.

"I have no idea." Sherlock mumbled into the old stained mahogany.

John raised an eyebrow.  
"What do you mean 'you have no idea'? Did you black out or something? Er...Stay out too late?"

Sherlock sat up and rolled his eyes as he put his head in his hands.  
"Do I look like I got intoxicated last night? Do you even smell alcohol on my breath? No, I'm not hungover you idiot. I _literally _have no ideas. I stayed up all night trying to crack this case but the evidence just isn't coming together."

John shrugged as he cleaned off half of the stove to find the warm kettle.  
"I'm sure you'll figure it out. Want some tea?"

Sherlock shook his head.  
"No, thank you...what happened to your eye, Watson?"

John put a hand to his eye, trying to hide the yellow-purple bruise.  
"I...I got in a fight."

Sherlock stared at him, eyebrow raised, an odd little grin on the corner of his mouth.

John sighed.  
"You have that look again..."

Sherlock snickered.  
"Which one?"

John poured some tea into his cup.  
"The 'You're lying to me, I just evaluated you and I know what you _REALLY_ did last night and if I'm right you give me ten pounds.' look."

Sherlock grinned ear to ear.  
"Do you want to hear it?"

John rolled his eyes as he opened his laptop and set it on the table.  
"Nope."

Sherlock frowned.  
"Then don't tempt me so. It is not very kind to acknowledge one's brilliance and not marvel in it."

John sipped his tea.  
"You're tired. You've been up all night. Just go to bed."

Sherlock stood to his feet.  
"What good is sleep? It's just a longer period of time wasted that could be used for thinking!" he paced back and forth across the kitchen, kicking old newspapers out of his way as he went.

"Useless clues. Useless ideas. Useless lies of the media. Complete waste of time..."

John sipped his tea and patiently waited for Sherlock's little 'Thinking Tantrum' to end.

Sherlock pulled his hands through his hair, as if he were trying to pull out the long brown curls.  
"How fair is it that I stay up all night with no new leading clues on our case, but you walk in the door and I know _exactly_ where you went? Why can I do everything I don't want to do, but not what I _WANT_ to do?"

John rolled his eyes.  
"If it gets you to shut up, just tell me!"

Sherlock smiled and stopped pacing.  
"You weren't in a fight last night...though you did stay out all night..."

John sighed and lowered the screen of his laptop.  
"How do you know that?" he asked, humoring him. He knew it was no use lying to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock pointed at Watson's jacket.  
"Your coat; it's wet, but it hasn't rained in London in the past hour, so you were in Cardiff. It's been raining there all night. I'd say, around 1:00 you decided you would stop for a drink. Not at a bar; you don't smell if alcohol either, but according to the receipt sticking out of your pocket it seems you went to a very expensive dine-in restaurant. You met someone there. A woman by the smell. Unless you've bought the wrong cologne. Again."

John rolled his eyes.  
"How did you know I lied about the fight?"

Sherlock Scoffed.

"Even a blind man could tell you that the bruise forming around your left eye was not made by a pair of knuckles. Too misshapen. This blow came from above while a punch would come from the front. And by the receipt I can see that you paid for only one person. Now, that would mean that you didn't pay for your date which would be outrageous and totally out of character for you. No. The woman whose perfume you reek of was your waitress, a clumsy girl by the state of your shirt and eye. She bumped into you and spilled coffee on your jumper and you tried to help her clean it up of off the floor only to hit your eye on the table as you sat up. She got some ice for swelling and you began talking until her shift was over. Not a very busy night in the restaurant, so she had the time. And by the little heart by her signature on the receipt, you got her number and took a taxi home...That's what you want me to think. Really, you didn't get her number because she is recently engaged, the signature on the paper just a habit; she always signs with a heart for her lover. So you came home numberless in a grumpy mood, with a black eye and nothing to show you went on a date but the missing cash in your bank account. "

John stood and shook his head in disbelief as he pulled his wallet out of his pocket.  
"I hate you when you're right."

Sherlock smiled triumphantly as he graciously took the ten quid John handed him.  
"I know."

He stood and went to the living room, grabbing his still-intact violin and began tuning it, preparing for another useless hour of brainstorming for his case.

John raised an eyebrow as he plopped down on the sofa behind him.  
"How did you know she was engaged?"

"Must you _always_ bother me when I'm thinking?" Sherlock snapped as he began playing his violin.

John sighed and started typing on his laptop.  
"Alright. I didn't care anyway."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he stroked the strings with the bow.  
"Her perfume."

John raised an eyebrow.  
"You could tell that she was engaged by her _perfume_?

Sherlock's fingers plucked each note with grace.  
"Why is this so surprising to you?"

"But _how_?"

Sherlock closed his eyes in concentration.  
"She was working at a diner. Now, I dare say she was intelligent, you don't easily infatuate yourself in women who don't understand you, so she must have been very smart. But nobody that intelligent would _choose_ to work at a diner. It bored her; why else would she rather talk to you? But it was probably only _one_ of her many work places. Saving up money for her big day. They all do. But her perfume; It's not cheap. Most women buy cheap perfume that smells almost identical to the expensive. But you can always tell the cheap by the overpowering smell of alcohol. But your waitress...the sheer fact that she is wearing any at all means she has someone to impress. But hers is highly expensive. _Too_ expensive. Even with multiple jobs she couldn't afford it. It was a gift from her lover. Something she rarely wore because she would want it to last, probably something special; an anniversary gift would fit. He didn't cheap out on her like most would in their first few months, meaning they have been together for well over a year. Over a year, using expensive perfume, not interested in other men; ergo, engaged. Also, you are grumpy and numberless, meaning you were turned down. No interest in cheating on her lover. The loyalty of a woman in love. But if she were intelligent _AND _single, surely she would have at least have.."

His fingers froze in place as he opened his eyes.

John raised an eyebrow.  
"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

Sherlock shushed him as he closed his eyes again, eyebrows pushed together.

John sighed.  
"If you don't tell me, I will have to finish that sentence in my head...And I really didn't like where it was going..."

Sherlock smiled.  
"...Have given you her number!"

He threw his violin down (without breaking it this time) and grabbed his coat and scarf.

John shut his laptop and grabbed his jacket.  
"You've figured it out then? Your case?"

Sherlock nodded.  
"We need to get to Inspector Lestrade. The murder victim was having an affair. The man who claimed to be her husband was actually her lover. Why would she not have her husband's number on her phone? Why would she instead keep it on a piece of paper in her pocket?"

John thought it over.  
"Because she wouldn't want her husband to find out."

Sherlock nodded.  
"Exactly! Come on! We have evidence to find!"

They shut the door behind them, leaving flat 221 B empty behind them.  
Well, never truly empty; there was always a smashed violin.

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